Timebound
by terfle
Summary: Miss Hardbroom is a surreptitious person by nature. Unfortunately secrets have a habit of revealing themselves at unfortunate moments
1. Chapter 1

**Obviously the background to this is out of my imagination (possibly a little too farfetched) that is suitable for the angst that HB harbours. It could be quite disturbing but then everyone has a past.**

Dawn trembled over the horizon, weakly shining over the tops of the trees and filtering through the tallest room in the building, the deputy head's bedroom. Miss Hardbroom almost always awoke at the crack of dawn. If she had slept the night before, that is. This morning she shook herself awake and stretched like a cat. Her own cat Morgana was just coming in from the night. Jumping through the window, she yawned lazily, lapped at the water in her dish and settled down slowly for a nap.

Far down below, Imogen Drill had just finished an early morning run in the forest and was arriving back at the Academy. A pile of letters lay on the table in the hall and she picked them up, meaning to deliver them to everyone.

She took the letters to each colleague's rooms and slipped them under the doors. Miss Bat in the basement snored in a soft wheezy whisper. Miss Cackle was a silent sleeper near her office. Miss Crochet snuffled in the room opposite Imogen's. Miss Hardbroom's was the furthest, up a flight of steps leading to the tallest tower in the Academy. Of course it would be.

Lightly scampering up the stairs, she crept up to the door, which was open a crack and bent down to push the letter underneath. Hearing Morgana's meowing from inside, she knew HB was up. Soft murmuring was heard in response, Imogen stopped to listen. Taking the chance, she peered through the gap to observe a morning Miss Hardbroom, something she reckoned almost nobody would have seen.

She was stroking Morgana tenderly, ticking her under the chin and scratching behind her ears. Morgana was purring delightedly and her tail whipped back and forth as she followed her mistresses teasing fingers, licking them with affection and resting her head against her hand. Constance smiled like a mother to her baby and Miss Drill was suddenly unnerved by the uncommon expression. She had only seen the woman give a slight twitch of the lips on occasion. She didn't expect a smile from her to be so genuine, lighting up the stern face, radiant in the morning light.

As was her hair, Imogen noticed. Always twisted up during the day, Constance freed it at night and the sun streaming through the room burnished it into a silken stream. Imogen was transfixed by the beautiful hair banished into a bun at all times during the daylight hours. Hair like that should be a pride and joy but Miss Hardbroom's strict upbringing wasn't one to acknowledge that.

Leaving Morgana be, she stood up and started preparing for the day. With one swift move, she pulled her pyjama top over her head and Imogen realised she needed to leave. But something caught her eye. Set in the ivory skin of her back were faint marks. Imogen looked hard but couldn't see what they were exactly.

Imogen knew that she had seen too much. She crept away quietly from the door and down the stairs just as Morgana started meowing, sensing her presence.


	2. Chapter 2

The staffroom was humming with morning activity. Miss Bat was composing in her cupboard while Miss Cackle frowned over a few papers over her morning toasted cheese.

Miss Hardbroom swept in and started organising the day. Impatiently waiting for Miss Bat to come out of the cupboard with pencils in her hair, she ignored the Mongolian humming and stated the obvious.

'Aren't you supposed to be supervising the girls for breakfast?' she asked the hapless teacher. Davina dropped her conductor's baton in realisation that she should indeed be doing that. HB rolled her eyes after Miss Bat rushed down to oversee the students.

'Are you sure you don't need a rota written out and stuck to the door Headmistress?'

Amelia looked up from the cheese strings she was twirling around her finger. 'No no HB, no need for that. I'm sure the girls will be fine downstairs, it won't harm them for her to be late.'

Miss Hardbroom privately thought that semolina would be flying off the walls by now, to the backdrop of Lavinia Crochet's organ bashing in the assembly hall that was currently music of the month.

Miss Drill read her mind and grinned. 'I'm sure the kitchen won't be cooking semolina for a while.' HB rolled her eyes in acknowledgement.

Miss Cackle didn't notice. She was too busy rooting around in the messy pile of papers to find the day's work without staining them with cheese grease. Unsuccessfully. HB sighed and conjured up a bowl of water and a cloth. Another day had started in Cackle's Academy.


	3. Chapter 3

Imogen couldn't get the image of the marked skin out of her mind. She sat in the staffroom at midday break and pondered. Miss Cackle noticed and sat down next to her.

'Penny for them?'

Imogen glanced at the Headmistress and wondered what to tell her. It could be nothing. She might be reprimanded for spying on a teacher. Maybe Miss Cackle already knew. Perhaps Miss Hardbroom would materialise out of thin air at an inconvenient time. She tended to do that.

'Something of a sensitive nature, hmm?'

Imogen nodded. She reckoned Miss Cackle might know something about it.

'This morning, I went for a run and when I came back, I found a pile of letters. So I delivered them to each teacher.'

Amelia Cackle nodded. 'Thank you for that by the way, meant to mention it.'

'Well I went up to Miss Hardbroom's room and slipped the letter under the door and the door was open a little...'

She looked at the Headmistress and was encouraged by the nod.

'So I looked in and she was talking to her cat.'

'Heard anything interesting?'

'Well, no. It was nothing like that.' Miss Drill felt a flush rising up to her face. It was embarrassing being caught out for voyeurism.

'Well I noticed something strange. She had these strange marks on her skin.'

'What kind of marks?'

'Well, it looked like...' She thought about it for a minute. 'Scars. But I couldn't see properly. On her back.'

Amelia ruminated on the image.

'You just happened to see those?' she asked, her chin resting on steepled fingers. Imogen wished the ground could swallow her up at this point. She was quite sure Miss Cackle was suppressing a smile. It sounded so perverted, to be spying on a practically nude teacher. She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, something that sometimes focused her. She kept her voice low.

'She was getting undressed. That's how I saw. It wasn't on purpose.'

'I see.'

'I just can't get the image out of my mind. I was wondering if you knew anything about it.'

'I can't say I do.' The teasing tone had disappeared and Amelia looked apprehensive. 'I've never heard of this. Mind you, I've never had reason to see that much of her.' They both knew that pretty much nobody had seen anything much of Miss Hardbroom. The woman was a bit of a mystery to everyone.

'I just can't help being inquisitive. How much do you know about her?' Imogen burst out, seemingly unable to control her curiosity.

'Well I know the basic things. Where she studied, what family she came from etc. You don't need much more than a track record and teaching credentials for a job. Further than that, I know little further. We treat each other with professionalism.'

Imogen suspected that wasn't quite true. She had a feeling that Amelia Cackle knew more than she was letting on.

'What of her family?'

'A rather magical mishmash. Highly talented, but full of steps and halves everywhere. Extended and reconstituted.'

'What do you mean?'

'Lots of great aunts and uncles and such-like. I vaguely remember a half sister of hers. Very glamorous. Married a foreign wizard.'

Imogen tried to imagine a glamorous half sister and eventually came up with an image of Morticia Addams. Was there room in that kind of a family for an exotic beauty?

'Was she older or younger? The sister?' she enquired casually.

Amelia thought for a minute.

'I'm quite sure she is the older of the two. She's the only person that writes to Constance as far as I know. They seem to be close.'

Imogen realised that the answer was in her hand this morning. She never gave it much thought but Miss Hardbroom did get a letter every month so that must be who it was from. She stored that piece of information to mull on later. Now was her chance to press for more information.


	4. Chapter 4

She thought up a number of questions, many of which seemed inappropriate to ask. HB was an intensely private person. But her source of information was in a curiously divulging mood. Perhaps today's cheese on toast was exceptionally tasty. It had been but that wasn't it. Amelia Cackle was doing some thinking herself. She had a suspicion but kept it to herself. Most things were just a theory with her deputy head.

'How does she get all of that hair up every day?'

'She likes to do some things without magic' Amelia informed her with a smile. 'I have a theory that she keeps grounded by attending to herself as an average person does.'

'That's a lot of hair to attend to. Must take some time.'

'Even HB needs some time to herself. Perhaps tending to her hair is a form of centring her thoughts.'

That seemed to make sense.

'I suppose that makes sense. She looks the same every day. It's like she wakes up every morning with a fresh face of makeup' mused Imogen. 'How does she have the time?'

Miss Cackle looked at her over her glasses.

'Constance doesn't wear makeup' she corrected.

'So why are her lips always the same colour? A curious burgundy shade.'

Amelia sipped from her cup.

'How much do you know about witches, Imogen?'

'Well, enough, working here.'

'Do you know about the marking of a witch?'

Miss Drill taken aback. 'Witches have markings?'

'You should know that a witch harbours a physicality to show she is such. All witches have one. The more powerful a witch you are, the more concentrated the mark is. I have a mole on my wrist, see.' She pushed up her sleeve and displayed it. It was in fact 2 particularly large moles joined together in a bow shape. 'Certainly unusual' observed Imogen.

'Much of the time, this is a kind of mark, a mole or a birthmark. For many others, it is an unusual coloured lock of hair.'

Imogen could recall a few witches she had seen at school events with odd coloured bits in their hair. She had simply thought it was a fashion statement. She had forgotten to not underestimate the importance of any little detail in the magical world.

'Constance is no ordinary witch. She has exceptional powers. Her skin is marked in a different way, in the staining of her lips.

'That's a measure of her magic?' Imogen was astounded.

'Indeed it is. She was born with it and honed it to perfection over the years. It is possible she has a birthmark somewhere as well but there is sufficient evidence on her face to tell me how high a calibre of witch she is.'


	5. Chapter 5

Later that night Amelia stopped by the window of her room with her customary mug of hot chocolate. A movement in the grounds caught her eye. A shadowy figure was walking along the foliage. Amelia knew the shadow well. She stood there for a while, silently still, looking out to the direction of the forest. Sometimes she walked to another spot, sometimes she stayed there.

When Amelia had first encountered this, she was glued to the window, not knowing how long she would stay there but vowing to watch over until she went inside. She regretted her decision when it took her to nearly 2 o'clock in the morning. Her hot chocolate was cold and she nearly fell asleep after lunch. How did Constance keep herself alert during the day if she roamed around at night like that?

The answer was in the large quantity of potion brewed up every week. A couple of spoonfuls every other day was enough. By the time Amelia had found that out, she was already in the habit of observing whenever she caught sight of the familiar shadow at night. She didn't know the reason for the sleepwalking (she was sure it was that) but she knew she must watch out for her deputy head.


	6. Chapter 6

Unaware of her colleague's interference, Miss Hardbroom continued with her week, with Swiss clock efficiency and precise manner as always.

What went on in her head, nobody knew. She didn't always know. Her remembrance of her night time wanderings were wisps of cambric tucked away in the corners. Sometimes they would work loose and flutter to the front of her thoughts, occasionally in the most inconvenient moments. So good was she in hiding it, none of the students ever noticed when she stared at the steam rising from her cauldron for a few seconds too long, seeing something they couldn't in those swirls. She always snapped back to attention but for the rest of the lesson it would linger to the back of her mind, like the remains of a headache. Just a dull ache which resurfaced later at night, which drove her to keep awake and wander out of the building into the cold night air and stare into the darkness, seeing shapes and characters play out thoughts and fantasies in the murky wasteland of her past. Her mind was an inexhaustible diary that flipped to pages ranging from the mundane to the most private.

Tonight she had done night duty as usual and marked some more work. There was an unexpected lull in her routine. Tonight she was restless, twitchy even. What to do with the time from now until sunrise? She wasn't tired so what could she do?

Morgana jumped up onto the bed and sat with her tail twitching. She was waiting for a scratch behind the ears. She was always partial to a scratch behind the ears. She got her wish.

Leaning against the bedpost, she enveloped Morgana in a warm embrace and stared out of the window. The sky was navy with silver wisps wreathing across the moon. It was wonderful. She could never understand how other people didn't see the beauty in such intense colours. She could almost sense the universe in its inky depths swirled with sparks of hope and regret. She wished she could recreate a potion in the lab to look just like that. Something captured in a bottle, with a touch of purple. If she could ever mix it up, she would stare at it all night. Just look at, not drink. But if it tasted as it looked, perhaps it might do something radical, lift her heavy heart for once. She longed to have silver shot silk threads wound through her blood. She wasn't born that way and had never thought that she could be anything else but occasionally the longing got too much and she ended up wasting time looking outside to what she couldn't have.

Oh to be a cat. She envied the freedom of her feline. To roam through the darkness of the night without concern or care. More than once she had been tempted to mix up a batch of particular potion that would turn her into the desired result, but she always refrained, finding reasons against it. She never had excuse to be irresponsible before and she didn't see how she could get away with it now.


	7. Chapter 7

She didn't go out that night. She stayed in, mixing and stirring before dawn. She was tempted to go out and see what she could find but it had started raining heavily and fatigue had made her lazy.

Instead she took her own time, picking out ingredients at random and stirring at her leisure. Letting her mind wander, Constance arranged and blended in bits and pieces with no apparent aim. Letting nothing guide her, she ended up with a small quantity of something murky that she would never drink. It was just the base. She intended on refining it to the colour of her dreams. Not the nightmare kind of dreams, the purple and silver flashes that she saw in her mind. Here was a project that needed no deadline and might even mature into molasses for all she knew, but she had to try it.

She nearly forgot but just as dawn lit up the sky, she remembered her usual dose of wide awake potion. Morgana watched with suspicious eyes. She sensed her mistress's odd mood and wasn't sure what to make of it.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning light glinted against the potion bottle, catching her eye as she finished brushing her hair. Winding it into its usual bun, she carried on as usual. Smoothing any stray hairs into place, she thought about how it looked different. It had only been brewed a couple of hours ago and yet it had taken on a slight pearly sheen.

She wondered about it through the day. It was at the back of her mind through potions with Enid and Mildred spilling their unfinished result on the table, melting a hole in the wood. She restored it easily, gave them her usual glare, bestowed a detention each and carried on with the lesson. All the while, her thoughts stayed with that little bottle of sludge sitting next to her bed. Was she unreasonable to hope that it would develop into something more?

That night she finished her marking, prowled around the school for rule breakers and finding none, went back to her room to look at the bottle again. Nothing seemed to happen but she was sure something would. She definitely wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. She was tempted to go back down to the lab to see if she could create something new but reminded herself of the costs of supplies. She was getting ahead of herself. She felt almost arrogant about the thought of carelessly mixing up whatever she wanted. She should never abuse her power or talents, she knew that, and yet there was something exciting about all of this. Constance prided herself on her work attitude and result, kept a cool head about her and was never given to flights of fancy. She couldn't afford to. It was as alien to her as going on holiday.

Amelia Cackle teased her about it recently. Constance had admitted that she didn't understand frivolity. She supposed it had never been in her nature. Then she realised what she'd said. The word 'supposed' was something new. She knew, not supposed. Didn't she? She looked at the headmistress and saw puzzlement on her face. Apparently Amelia didn't understand it either, for she knew HB well. There was rarely a 'suppose' about her. Constance froze for a few seconds, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong. The efficient voice in her head had always told her that she was a stoic creature through and through. So how had it changed in recent times? She could hardly blame her age. She didn't correct it as she would normally do but stayed silent. If she said nothing, she couldn't say anything ridiculous. It happened more often, reacting less. She'd been leaving conversations up in the air a lot. Amelia had noticed, she could tell.

What to say after the word 'supposed?' She would start doubting herself next. That would never do.

Another spoonful of wide awake potion was needed that night.


	9. Chapter 9

A week later and the contents of the bottle had developed veins of silver snaking from the depths. She hadn't added much to it, the marking and extra work leading up till Christmas was unbearable and even wide awake potion didn't always help. She looked forward to the empty echoing of the corridors when the girls went home.

Feeling weary and never being able to lighten the feeling in her head, Constance occasionally became careless. Normally so careful with measurements, she had lost count of how much potion she had taken. Possibly a spoonful too much every so often. She'd ceased to remember and never remembered to look at the bottle that last week. If she had noticed, she would have been secretly thrilled to see the flashes of silver she had so desired to create.

She would soon. She had all Christmas to explore the possibilities of the new potion. For now, it sat on her dressing table. During the evenings Morgana sat opposite it and stared it out. She sensed a new mood in that bottle and she wasn't sure if she liked it.


	10. Chapter 10

Miss Cackle was tidying up the staffroom. She found some hair clips, a cat treat and a piece of material so ragged it probably came from Mildred Hubble's sock drawer. Disposing of the items, she set up the table for a quick cup of tea.

She noticed her deputy head seemed quieter than usual. HB sipped her tea listlessly ad stared into her cup for much of the time. Amelia didn't address her much, thinking that she would want to be left alone.

After tea, HB went to her room and looked at her bottle. She noticed the silver. It felt exhilarated. It made her want to mix up more. It was a dangerous path, this. It was creating a motivation for research beyond her usual routine but at the same time, making her forget that magic was not to be used for selfish or trivial purposes. Each night she drank more potion and slept less, keeping awake for more late night experiments. Each morning the contents of the bottle looked slightly different. She was getting close to achieving the desired result. Soon she would have a couple of weeks free to do…whatever it is she wanted to do. She still wasn't sure what all of this was for.

The day after school broke up was always blissful. The teachers stayed a few days into the holidays to make sure everything was locked up and put away. Miss Hardbroom walked down the silent corridors and listened to the familiar echoes. Other people were frightened by noises but she found them of interest. She thought noise from downstairs could sound different if it were upstairs.

She went upstairs. She looked at her empty bed. She looked out of the window. She looked at the bottle. She could almost see it looking at her. She shook her head in disbelief. Was this the end of her sanity after so many years of teaching? Thinking that bottles were looking at her? She felt stupid.

Constance felt the lure of the potion pull her towards it. She battled with the idea and was still thinking about it when Miss Cackle announced another tea break.


	11. Chapter 11

_Words swirled before her, disappearing into the grey, a lurking beast growled from within the depths but Constance was thinking only of those words, the ones to the poem. She must have been very young, barely remembering it. She remembered when they found it, tore it up in pieces, scrips and scraps all over her dress. Tore a heartstring, tore a strand, tore the pieces from out of her hand. Her childish thoughts were scattered around like sugar grains while lights ahead flustered and frizzled. Thoughts, words, flashes of frenzy, lightening in her brain and scraplets of envy. Dribs and drabs, she was thinking in rhymes while the potion spoon chimes. She knew it was a mistake to open that bottle but just like a child, she did what she shouldn't. Now she was hurtling through ink and the stars, selfish, trivial purposes, she knew it to be now. Who needed to live among the stars when the ground was sturdier? That's what she'd always been told. And she'd always done what she'd been told. Or had she? Her mind was fuzzy, Where those her thoughts spinning around on all sides? She just yearned to be a child for once._


	12. Chapter 12

'Constance? Are you coming down for tea?'

Miss Cackle thought it over and frowned. She knew HB could hear her shouting from the bottom of the stairs but it was most unlike her to not reply or keep her waiting. She could hear Morgana meowing somewhere. Stomping up the stairs, Miss Drill following behind, Amelia knocked on the door. It was open a crack. They pushed open the door and saw a figure crumpled on the bed. Morgana was nowhere to be seen.

Imogen immediately thought the worst. Running over and shaking the prone figure but there was no response. Amelia gently stopped her. 'It's no use. I have a feeling she won't wake so easily.'

'She's definitely not sleeping then?'

'Oh I don't think so.'

Imogen couldn't understand how the headmistress could be so calm. The school policewoman was in some sort of a coma and she was acting like this was normal. The idea of HB asleep was just not normal.

'There's been something different about her recently, we've all noticed it' said Amelia, frowning.

'She's done something altogether peculiar recently, I gather. But what it is, I don't know.'

'Is she ill?'

They looked down at the figure on the bed. A blank face. They couldn't garner much information form that.

'I know she has trouble sleeping, for what reason, I'm never sure. But to fall asleep in the middle of the day all of a sudden just like that? How odd.'

'Why doesn't she brew a potion for insomnia?'

'It only works for a short amount of time. There's only so much it can do. I gather this isn't a new problem.'

'What kind of problem?'

'As I said, I'm never sure.'

If Amelia didn't know what was wrong, then nobody would, thought Miss Drill. She thought of all of the reasons for insomnia but couldn't attach them to HB.

'What do you think it could be?'

'I have an idea that her wakefulness is a state of restlessness. Sometimes at night she walks around but appears unaware of doing so.'

'She's disturbed?'

'Possibly.'

'A sleepwalker?'

'Very possible.'

Miss Cackle's refusal to settle on an idea irked Imogen. She didn't see why she would have reservations about putting a finger on the right theory. As if reading her mind, the headmistress looked at her.

'I'm unable to commit to a theory without knowing the full facts.' This much was true of her character.

'Tell me honestly, what do you think?' Pressed Imogen. She just couldn't understand the magical world where sleeping was such a problem but mixing up items from the outdoors almost never resulted into a nasty case of poisoning.

Amelia thought about it.

'She has unresolved issues.'

Imogen snorted. That HB did have.

'It often stems from childhood. Sleepwalking, nightmares, that sort of happenings. But most people grow out of that by now.'

They both thought of the same thing. Wide awake potion. HB brewed it every week and took liberal amounts to keep her vigilant. As she did night duty and worked throughout the night, it was assumed that she never needed much rest. Amelia knew that the potion was taken every two days, the alternate night left for a little sleep. Nobody could have thought that she kept awake because of a more sinister reason. HB was not the kind of person you would think of having nightmares but once Miss Cackle had suggested it, it did become plausible.

'She won't wake up. No amount of noise has disturbed her. What should we do?'

Miss Cackle sighed. She had no answer. She did have a theory as to why this had happened at least.

'She must not have taken her potion.'

'What do you mean?'

'Her wide awake potion. She brews a cauldron full every week and drinks a tablespoon without fail every two days. I've never known her not to take it. How else can she cope with staying up half of the week doing extra marking and the night rounds?'

'What will happen if she doesn't take it?'

'She must be reliant on the stuff; this must be causing her body quite a bit of havoc.'

Imogen's thoughts went straight to addiction. There was no way on earth HB could be considered a substance abuser. But she did take the potion regularly so was this considered withdrawal symptoms? It seemed absurd. So was the question in her head, but she asked it anyway.

'Does that mean she's catching up on her sleep?'

Miss Cackle looked at her over the top of her glasses. Miss Drill felt foolish.

'I think it does. She must be experiencing serious fatigue for this to happen. She's burnt herself out.'

'I didn't expect you to take that seriously.'

'Well I do. I am certain she did not take her potion for whatever reason and it is causing her some problems.'

'You mean…?' Imogen looked aghast. 'She didn't take it on purpose?'

'It is a theory I'm prepared to consider quite seriously.'

'What could it mean?'

'It could mean a couple of things. She could be giving in her resignation. She could be peacefully protesting about something. She could be under an enchantment, though I doubt it. Or it could be a cry for help. A version of self-harm, if you prefer to call it that. Any of these things could account for a deliberate mistake on her part. It may mean she simply forgot, but for that to happen, she would need to have been in a state of great stress to do so. Something is weighing on her mind and she has likely banished it to the back, leaving the thought to fester and finally take hold and shut down her body.'

'Can a thought do that?' Asked Imogen warily.

'Certainly. Thoughts are powerful things. One thought can undermine your confidence and take everything away from you. Look at a student like Mildred Hubble. She could do much better if she believed in herself but the thought that she is destined to fail is what brings her such trouble.'

The bottle glinted wickedly in the light. They both saw it then, nestled among the blanket near her hand.


	13. Chapter 13

'That's not it, is it?' Imogen picked it up and looked at it. Making a move to open it, Amelia shouted at her to stop. Imogen stared at her in surprise.

'Who knows what could be in there?' She explained. 'It might not be the potion we think it is.'

'It's not wide awake potion?'

'Possibly not.' Miss Cackle took it and examined it. She noted the cruel silver streak. Definitely not the friendly green stuff in there.

'You don't think she drinks that for the nightmares? To keep her awake?'

Miss Cackle felt a chill down her spine with those words. Nightmares were unbearable enough without making it a regular feature of your life on purpose. She didn't think it was possible. Then again, in light of this strange behaviour, the ideas were endless. She meant to reassure her colleague that it couldn't be so but the words didn't come out. She just looked at her. Miss Drill started to feel frightened.

'I didn't mean it…'

Amelia put the bottle in her pocket and frowned. This wasn't a normal potion. She swore she could feel it twitching away in the bottle.

'I hope this isn't the case but we can never be sure.'

'What's in it?'

'I don't even want to open it just in case whatever it is will get hold of us too' Amelia confessed. She went to sit on the chair and pulled the bottle out of her pocket. Stared at it. Shook it. Fingers hovered over the cork. They both knew she couldn't dare.

'Why don't we get rid of it?' Suggested Miss Drill.

'But if we get rid of it, we won't know what it is and if the answer to the antidote relies on this then we would have thrown away the chance of getting her back' fretted Miss Cackle.

'Well it's dangerous enough to put her into a coma. There's no Prince Charming needed is there?' Worried Imogen. 'It's not one of those kinds of potion?'

Miss Cackle smiled grimly. 'I very much doubt that this is that harmless. There's something a bit more malevolent here. I can only think of one person who could have a hand in this.'

They both knew the answer to that. Hekkity Broomhead.

'You think Mistress Broomhead sneaked this potion in for HB to drink?' Asked Imogen, aghast.

'No, not that. But the thought of that Broomhead influencing her thoughts might be it. Some people have a powerful presence that can overlap into other spheres of life.'

They considered this idea.

'You think Mistress Broomhead is controlling HB through her dreams?' Suggested Imogen.

'Not exactly. But for some reason she may be the trigger for all of this unease Constance has been displaying recently.'

'How will we know?'

'We don't.' Amelia looked at her colleague. 'We simply don't know.'


	14. Chapter 14

Rules, admonishments and punishments started from day one.

'Start as you mean to go on' barked Mistress Broomhead.

Constance learned a lot in the space of a few weeks, things that would cement her reputation from then on. Young enough to be moulded into the mind-set needed to become a future disciplinarian, old enough to take on the responsibility of a lifetime.

She could have used the stick propped up by her desk. She could have hit them with it. But she was much craftier than that.

'_Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.'_

There had never been a falser phrase spoken. Words were used as weapons to destroy and rebuild their characters, to toughen their soft, childish ways and thoughts. Mistress Broomhead was an expert at brutally reshaping a student to her satisfaction. By the time she would finish with young Constance Hardbroom, she would be confident in a successor. Coming from a prestigious family with a wealth of magic galore, the greedy Mistress Broomhead coveted this particular student from the minute she set eyes on her. She was sure she could make something of her. While the girl was quick to learn, highly absorbent and sensitive to magic, she hadn't reckoned on the force of personality. Little Constance was no pushover. She had a way of looking through to the depths of a person. Mistress Broomhead knew that this student was a little too clever so she had to work extra hard to conceal her ulterior motives. She had to use words to enslave her.


	15. Chapter 15

She didn't notice them at first. They crept up on her, burrowing from under her skin and working their way to the surface. They were faint, something she didn't take notice of. She had far more important things to do. But as the years went by and her lips deepened their hue, she saw them in the mirror. Pale marks, paler than her own alabaster skin snaked up her hips and marked her back. Her heart skipped a beat when she caught sight of them. She didn't know what they were, were they a sign of her expanding witchcraft? She knew about the marks of a witch but these weren't what she was expecting. She feared that they would take over her body, her skin cracked and marbled for all to see. This wasn't out of vanity; this was out of concern that something might be wrong. Was all of her studying and practising actually doing her harm? When Mistress Broomhead observed her star pupil stealing a glance at her hands, she smiled inwardly. Those words were having an effect. They were being absorbed and showing up on young Constance's skin, perhaps as a reminder of how powerful words could be, although she flattered herself to think that hers in particular were more deadly than anyone else. She would whip her pupils into shape to be the best they could be but they could never be as powerful as Hekkity Broomhead. Not even the Hardbroom girl.


End file.
